


And All That Jazz!

by megvad



Category: Bernice Bobs Her Hair - F. Scott Fitzgerald, Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby (2013)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Crossover, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Jazz Age, Moving On, Multi, New York City, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Sexism, Philosophy, Post-Canon, actually you don't need to squint, am i crazy? yes, crossover of Fitzgerald's works, do i care? no, it's what fitzgerald would have wanted, loootts of reference to jazz, lots of deep conversations about life, natsby if you squint, nick is in some weird sorta funk idk, nick's got some bisexual panic going on here, will update tags as I go along, you know i love me some gershwin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-07 23:22:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19859710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megvad/pseuds/megvad
Summary: "The world is moving on around him. It’s throwing him around, and he is powerless. He can’t even grip onto something -someone- and take control. Gatsby had been that anchor. But he is no more, and Nick just lays suspended in a river that won’t wait for him to learn how to swim. He isn’t drowning, but he isn’t breathing.The world could look ahead. They could face tomorrow.He can’t."*A crossover of Fitzgerald's works, centering around Nick Carraway after the events of The Great Gatsby and his return to Minnesota.





	And All That Jazz!

**Author's Note:**

> i just love fitzgerald's writing so much plz don't sue

Gatsby haunts New York.

His presence is very tangible in the crevices between walls, the empty shops, the shadows falling on the alleyways. His presence clings to every sight that enters Nick’s eyes. He disappears and reappears now and again - not unlike the form he knew in flesh. He is more than an apparition that briefly enters and exits the vision. He is an encompassing notion that marrs Nick’s every single thought. It is heavy, weighing him down until he can no longer breathe.

James Gatz is dead but very much alive.

He and the unsurpassable abhor Nick harbors towards this city, the gaping maw that consumes and consumes and will never give back, was enough to drive him away.

His family was initially receptive and excited for his return to Minnesota.That sentiment, however, immediately changed when he announced that it would be permanent for the foreseeable future. Dramatic as ever, they assumed the worst first and foremost: had someone threatened his life? Had his house burned down? Then, they jumped to the best: was he getting married? Had he encountered an unimaginable and unexpected windfall? Finally, they approached the practical: were the stocks not providing good profits? Had New York real estate skyrocketed? Was he homesick? Was he looking for a bride?

His mother had become effervescent with joy at that last possibility, but Nick reminded them that they were slipping into the ‘ludicrous questions’ territory.

Nick wouldn’t tell them. How could he? How could anyone explain to these naive Midwesterners of New York? Could they imagine the skyscrapers and Times Square and T.J Eckelberg’s eyes on a board in the Valley of Ashes? Would they be able to see the light of parties of the West Egg behind their eyelids, or hear the music and screaming just as it echoed in his mind,  _ mocking  _ and  _ inviting  _ at the same time? Should he tell them how it felt, watching the world go on, watching people indulge and enjoy in their corrupt pleasures while forgetting that a man was dead? How could they fathom of its inhabitants, who hid illicit desires behind coquettish glances under heavy mascara? They were ignorant, but Nick reminded himself that they were not the kind to slip away into their inexhaustible wealth and follies when a dead man’s blood stained their palms. For that, he reasoned, he would force himself to find comfort here. He settled on using the excuse that he saw no future for him in New York (a truth), financially or socially (a lie).

It was hard to settle in, at first. If Nick allowed his mind to romp in the dense forests of nostalgia, he would stumble on the roots of a tree and fall into the hole of New York. On hot summer afternoons, his blood would boil with the thirsts of champagne and women and men and cigarette smoke overlooking the bay. And in the dead of night, during the breaks between the cicadas’ and crickets’ intermittent choral performance, Gershwin’s jazz would sweep between the trunks of Angel Oak, arms reaching out and inviting him into the next round of Charleston. New York had penetrated his bones and rested in the marrow. One short year of its culture had infected him.

Now, he is repenting and decaying because of it. Nick so frequently relapses into the allure of yesterday that he forgets his home for a second too long. There are equal parts scorn and longing to be in New York. Like opulence, like fame, a mere taste could hardly satisfy a man’s avarice. He dreams of parties and car rides and beaches, only to wake up and guiltily wish those were all nightmares instead. 

Perhaps it had been unwise of him to leave so abruptly. He was no doctor, but he thought self-prescribing a good distance from the root of his illness would have been beneficial. He thought it would do him good. The traditional Midwest  _ should  _ have fared well with his health. He had left everything behind in New York just to ensure that.

But Gatsby followed.

He had slipped into the train cart when the conductor wasn’t looking and smuggled himself among Nick’s bags. When the nights were cool and the stars twinkled, the pit in his subconscious always half-expected to hear  _ old-sport _ being called. Cars didn’t race around the streets anymore (still, Nick forfeited driving altogether), but whenever one did pass by, hiccuping and hopping on the bumpy dirt roads, his eyes searched for a streak of bright yellow. Worst of all, if he was in bed and lay still enough, he could feel the faintest touch of a hand on his arm, guiding him,  _ grounding  _ him to these days when it felt like the world was slipping by. 

The world is moving on around him. It’s throwing him around, and he is powerless. He can’t even grip onto something -  _ someone _ \- and take control. Gatsby had been that anchor. But he is no more, and Nick just lays suspended in a river that won’t wait for him to learn how to swim. He isn’t drowning, but he isn’t breathing.

The world could look ahead. They could face tomorrow.

He can’t.

*

His family is glad to have him back, albeit a little disappointed that their son hadn’t struck big in the East. But they never pry, and very soon did Nick begin to hate that fact as well. Gatsby is a secret he has gathered close to his chest, and it is welling up inside of him. Turgid but rotten, the experience stains his conscience and reeks like sludge. Maybe, if one of his sisters is nosy enough to pester him on his affairs, he would have the grounds to slip. One misspoken word would lead to a sentence which would lead to a waterfall of conflicting and messy emotions to pour out. It would be a blameless reason to reveal all that had gone in that year. Surely, anyone would lose their bearings after sealing away a memory that painful and saccharinely bitter.

However, remaining a good family and a poor excuse, they stay away from that.

Instead, they focus on the future. And by future, that means a wife.

Nick has long since expressed his disapproval when it comes to dating, let alone having his family involved in his romantic affairs. After New York, after  _ Gatsby _ , nothing seems quite right. And yet, his parents insist that after he reaches 35 (which he’s dangerously close to approaching; being 31 does not provide enough time), he’ll never experience the touch of a woman again, and he may as well donate all his worldly possessions to charity. Nick loathes their exaggeration and overbearingness. Simultaneously, though, he cannot summon the will to finally end their games.

A game - yes, that’s what this feels like. Some comedy for their delight. His younger sister clings to the arm of a boyfriend, his elder one clings to the arm of her fiancé, and they teasingly ask who’ll cling onto his arm. His father makes mention of all the nymphs his business partners and friends have reared. His mother puts the greatest fervor in finding him dates. In the grand scheme, it all feels very foolish. Even when he was young, dating and partners all felt trivial to him. It continues to do so now.  _ What could be more important _ , he oftentimes wonders,  _ than learning and reading? _

According to his family, a great deal.

So they arrange dates with a new girl every week. Perhaps they intend to set him up with every female in the Midwest. Nick has a young face, his father assures him, so he can (hopefully) fool an unsuspecting bachelorette for long enough to sweep her off her feet.  _ Once a woman is in love _ , he chants to Nick,  _ nothing in the world can stop her. _

_ It’s the same with men _ , he wants to retort, but never does.

He’s so exhausted with this routine. It’s a pattern that has no end in sight: his mother will cheerily imply that there’s a pretty girl a few roads down who’ll be free that night, he’ll decline, and she’ll bemoan and criticize until Nick decides that maybe wasting 2 hours later will be better than the headache she’s giving him presently. On and on, over and over. He goes out, disappoints the lady, the lady disappoints him, and they never meet again. Simple. He’s resigned to his fate. It’s okay to remain a bachelor. He has no qualms with the future.

_ Gatsby died a bachelor _ , he remembers, hoping to humor himself.

But he then realizes it isn’t so funny after all.

What  _ is  _ funny, though, is himself. He feels like a joke, playing to the whims of his parents. Maybe that’s why he proves to be such entertainment. He despises himself, his weakness, and how awkward it feels to bring a girl to the movies or out to dinner. He  _ can’t  _ sweep women off their feet. Haven’t they have understood already? It was different with Jordan, who was always so elegantly detached from judgment and expectation. She could hold her head high and look past a bumbling man’s proclamations of affection or his performance in bed. Jordan wasn’t searching for a spouse in him, and that made it all the more easy to fall half in love with her. She didn’t expect anything from him.

New York didn’t either, in a way that was both belittling and liberating.

*

Nick is driving down the road, and for the fifth time, questions as to why he’s doing this.

_ Because mother said so _ , is the only disheartening answer he can produce. Nick is no whimpering duckling in constant need for his mother’s approval, but after some internally tumultuous debating, it’s the least he can do. 

The car gives a sudden rattle and every nerve in Nick’s body tenses. His breath catches in his throat and out comes an ungainly yelp. He floors the brakes hard, and the car comes to an immediate halt. A soft grunt erupts from the hood as he is thrown forward and back in his seat.

He is still for a while. Nick’s heart is thrumming in his chest when he notices that his fingers have not relaxed around the steering wheel. With no small effort, he pries them off and lays them on his lap.

It’ll take a long time for him to get used to this.

Just to make sure, and to settle the pit of morbid curiosity in his stomach, he shakily hops out of the car. Luckily, there’s no animal, much less a person, flat on the ground ahead of him. The sun’s heat and his own flushed color of embarrassment warm his clammy palms. It steadies out his breathing too, and next, his pulse.

The sweltering summer afternoon and the fluty notes of the mockingbirds ring in his head. In these conditions, his car is obviously bound to face a hiccup or two, and he wants to fold in on himself out of shame. He’d been staring straight ahead at the road. He’d been driving at a speed that turtles would compete with. What the hell is he so worried about?

The perspiration gathered on the back of his neck is wiped away. Internal scorn shoves the doubt and lingering worry down, and Nick clambers back into his car. No, not  _ his  _ car - his  _ father’s _ , but his mother insisted he take it for a good impression. He finds himself vaguely concerned for some reason, as if important information had been jolted to the back of his brain in the event of his braking.

Nick’s eyes suddenly go wide, and he turns around in the car to check on the peach cobbler in the back seat. Thankfully, it hasn’t been reduced to a fruity, pulpy mess, but the heat and the movement have taken a toll. Peach juice that wafts a sticky sweet smell accumulates on the edges of the pan and the crust has cracked in a few places. Is it an abomination? It isn’t, by any stretch of the mind, but his mother would be weeping over the travesty if she saw.

He returns to face the steering wheel. The scent of saccharine peaches will be stuck in the car for days, and for what? The opportunity to make a good impression to a girl he’s not sure he’ll even like?

A new family had moved into town earlier this week. His mother had foreseen their arrival almost a month prior, having participated regularly in a myriad of social circles and tea parties with clucking hens that only women like her could ever manage. However, she deemed that only now was the appropriate time to share that information with Nick. While having new faces in the area was nice, he couldn’t really see his relevance in the situation until she chimed that there was a new, pretty bachelorette for him to try his hand at.

His mother had decided to change her tactics this time. Instead of playing maestro and arranging her ideal date, all from picking the girl to choosing the movie, she wanted him to step onto their front porch, laden with homemade goods and a welcoming smile.

_ They come from Eau Claire _ , she had mentioned,  _ and they’re good, respectable people _ . To her, ‘good, respectable people’ meant those who still believed in Victorian skirts and parent-supervised courtship. The idea had resulted in a twist of repulsion in his stomach.

_ Why did they leave?  _ he had asked, near giddy to satisfy juvenile curiosity with some gruesome, horrid answer. She had responded with a combination of  _ it’s none of our business _ and  _ why can’t you listen to me without question? _

For the first time, Nick hadn’t bothered to protest, even after his mother had instructed him to leave promptly after lunch. It was to be a simple welcome, correct? He could manage.

He couldn’t manage driving, though. But after much bemoaning from his mother (and even from his father, who had conveniently decided to partake in the chastising of their only son), he yet again concluded that his obstinacy was intruding on their goodwill.

Nick resumes driving and mumbles the directions under his breath. Who is he supposed to be meeting again? Barbara? ...Beatrice?

After a little more navigating and a lot more regretting, Nick has sealed his fate and parks in front of an imposing Craftsman-style house. He’s conflicted, deciding between whether to appear dignified and personable or easy-going and vivacious. That debating ends rapidly once he remembers that the outcome of this encounter has already been decided by his repeating fate. It’s a pity, too, considering that in his hands lay one good peach cobbler to be exchanged for an entirely forgettable conversation.

He gets out of the car, clad with his mother’s baking, and begins his ascent up the front steps. Nick whistles at the grandness of the house, trying to amuse some sort of invisible crowd. If looks are telling, which they always are, these people are more than well-off. A slinking sensation of being an outcast crawls up his back, enough to offset. It’s not unfamiliar, though, and he recognizes it from New York. He’s felt this way at Gatsby’s parties, in Tom’s mansion, in places that were able to jeer at him through the mere architecture.

He wonders what would happen if he decided to leave then and there. He’d face a reprimand or two from his mother if he was forthright, or he could lie and hold up the charade long enough until she dipped herself back into her post-luncheon gossip groups to learn the truth. Nick knows that they’re family, and that they don’t resent him for returning to Minnesota, but that doesn’t ease the sense that he’s exhausting their patience. He should have a family by now. Married, with children. He doesn’t want to, but everyone else thinks he  _ should _ .

It is on this trail of thought that floats him up the stairs. Nick stands in front of a prettied mahogany door, and for the last time, rejects any impulse to flee. He’s not scared, after all. Why would be? All he’ll do is go in with a smile, refuse the offer of tea, make uninteresting banter, and leave. With the agenda settled firmly in his mind, he rings the doorbell. The loud chime is audible even on his side of the door.

He hears footsteps and smells peaches and feels the sun’s rays hit the back of his neck. His senses heighten from tingling apprehension.

The door opens.

Well, cracks open. It goes almost halfway before the figure behind it becomes startled and closes it slightly. Nick hears a tentative and near falsetto voice float out before he sees its owner.

“Ah! Hello.”

He spots a few brown curls and a brown eye before a can respond. Still unsure who it is he’s talking to, he opts for the professional “Good afternoon! Nick Carraway,” before sticking out a right hand too warm to comfortably shake.

The person on the other side is still for a second. They open it a little wider, and Nick finally pieces together the rest of the face. One more eye, a tiny mouth, and the rest of those curls that frame a round face. The light from outside pours in and illuminates a small and flattered smile.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Carraway,” she says, slowly stretching out a manicured hand to shake his. Her skin is relatively cooler, but he can blame his own temperature due to the peach cobbler and near stifling weather.

“Are you Miss....uh…?” He hopes that by dragging out his confusion for long enough, she’ll spare him from having to say the wrong name.

“Bernice,” the woman completes quietly, looking down at her shoes.

“...Sorry?”

Her gaze lifts back up at him.“Bernice. That’s my name.”

**Author's Note:**

> y'all better PROTECC bernice b/c she deserves love and growth and an understanding of herself w/out the restrictive definition of femininity


End file.
